


a voice inside me beckons me

by gealbhan



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Character Study, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, like one mention of one-sided alphys/asgore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-20 09:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20673077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: Snapshots of Asgore and Undyne's relationship over the years.





	a voice inside me beckons me

**Author's Note:**

> happy belated birthday undertale! can't believe it's been 4 yrs and i'm, well, still here and writing fic (there's an alphys-centric one sitting in my drafts, too; i should have it edited sometime next week?). i rewatched a true pacifist playthrough recently and undyne's dialogue in her hangout scene unexpectedly made me almost cry, so here's something (that was supposed to be) quick!
> 
> warnings: non-graphic off-screen violence (pretty canon-typical), including eye trauma & child death, and implied ableism.
> 
> title from "deadlock" by go! child. enjoy!

You’re lying flat on the ground. You stare up at the brilliant light of the sun overhead—it and the solid ground beneath you are the only reasons you’re remotely connected to reality right now. Your head is spinning, temper replaced with confusion, and your breathing is labored. There’s not a scratch on you, but you still _hurt_.

Your weak soul beats in your chest. _Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump_, it goes. A pressing—and much needed—reminder that, winded as you feel, you’re still alive.

But you find yourself wondering _why_. Why you took on the king of all people, the all-powerful Asgore. Why, though you charged at him time after time, he didn’t stop you in your tracks by retaliating. Why he stood still as a statue, face shadowed and expression pained as he watched you, while you tried and tried again to land even a single hit. Why he let you hold up the pretense of a real battle in the first place—a fight between a kid like yourself and the King of the Underground, much as you hate to admit it, isn’t a quite a fair fight.

You manage to pull yourself up into a sitting position. As soon as you do, you hunch forward, still panting. Why the hell are you still sitting here? (Aside from being physically incapable of standing.)

You curl your hands into fists. You close your eyes—then you decide you’re too impatient for that and open them again, glaring up beneath your sweat-slick bangs with all the petulance you’d come into this with.

Asgore looms over you. His shadowy form is as terrifying as it’s always been—more, even, because he’s not saying a word. He takes a big, heaving sigh—

You brace yourself—

And he holds a large furry paw out toward you.

You stare, uncomprehending. He’s… offering you a hand to let you up? Showing you mercy, you realize, and you recoil.

You _lost_. Sure, you didn’t take a single hit, but you sure didn’t land one either, and it’s clear that in a real fight you would lose for real. Why would he not only spare you but show you this sort of kindness? Because you’re young? A monster?

Your lip curls. There’s no room for that kind of sentimentality in a world like this. You’re not a human, so your soul wouldn’t be useful, but you’ve just proven yourself as an insurgent. He should be striking you down where you stand, putting you out of the misery that comes with defeat—

“Excuse me,” he says, voice unexpectedly gentle, “do you want to know how to beat me?”

You blink. Not only is he showing you mercy, but he’s just willing to give up all of his secrets like that? This is a trap, you’re certain, but—

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re grinning and taking his hand to pull yourself up. “Hell yeah,” you say, even though you still don’t know what’s happening and are still pretty sure you’re going to get a trident through the chest now that you’re up and vulnerable.

But Asgore smiles.

And that’s how you end up becoming his trainee.

*

Asgore, it turns out, is a total _wimp_. He’s strong as all hell, yeah, but he’s a soft touch too. You can’t believe you ever believed all those rumors about his ruthlessness and rage that had won the Underground however many human souls thus far.

(In time, you’ll come to see that maybe those versions of Asgore can co-exist within his plump, kindly shell. That Asgore is as ruthless as they say, but that he hates that about himself. That he is strong beyond belief, but it’s come with unimaginable costs.

But for now, you laugh at the mental image of this man bringing himself to take the soul out of any human. You decide you’ll have to be brutal to make up for it.)

In between training sessions, Asgore gets you to cook and make tea and tend to his flowers. You’re not too good at any of it—you like a lot of heat in the kitchen, which leads to fires more often than not—but you find his tenderness catching nonetheless. So, though bewildered, you play along. You do things in your own way to begin with: throw noodles into pots and turn the heat up as high as it’ll go without setting anything on fire, stir tea fast and drink it while it’s still boiling, dumping water on plants in his garden. But you still do it.

After a while, you even start paying more attention to his careful instructions. Not least because he always smiles at you like he’s really proud afterward. You haven’t gotten that from other people a lot. It’s… nice.

“People are like flowers,” he tells you over a cup of golden flower tea. You doubt you’ll ever get used to how calm he is—even in the throes of training, he’s patient and thoughtful. “You must treat them with care suited to their needs. Did you know that there are some flowers that only grow in darkness? I found that very interesting.”

You stare at the wobbling reflection in your own mug. Your distorted face represents your current mood. You have no idea what to say to this fun fact.

Asgore coughs. “Sorry. I’m not used to having people to talk to like this.”

You frown. “But you’re the king,” you say. “You’re all powerful and tough and—” you consider saying_ cool_ before looking at the man before you and realizing he is anything but that in anything except appearance “—all that. Why don’t people talk to you? You aren’t even married?” You think you remember gossip about the former queen and her brains, but you’ve never heard Asgore mention a spouse.

Asgore goes rigid. He taps one of his claws along the rim of his mug. You get the feeling you’ve overstepped, but you’re sure as hell not backing down now.

“In a position of power,” Asgore says, words careful, “you are not always well-liked. And sometimes you must do things that you don’t want to for the sake of the greater good. And… well, let us just say that I’ve had to burn some bridges in my time.” He laughs, hollow and feeble.

You don’t understand, but you’re sure he’s right. He usually is once he gets on a path you can’t follow. You take a sip of tea, wince, set it back down, and lapse into silence, avoiding Asgore’s eyes.

“Golly, we’ve gotten off track.” Asgore straightens up, setting his half-empty mug aside. “We should get back to training, shouldn’t we? Sorry,” he adds again.

This is familiar territory, at least. You stand, almost knocking over the table and catching yourself in time, and whip your wooden spear off the sheath on your back. “Sounds good to me,” you say.

Asgore looks startled for a moment, then he chuckles. “I’ll have to get you a better spear soon.”

“This one is fine,” you say, eyeing the multiple places where the only thing holding it together are plugs of spider silk.

“For now, maybe.” Asgore scratches his chin. “Well, that’s a concern for later, I suppose. For now—” He raises his trident from where it’d been leaning against his chair. “May the best fighter win,” he says, smiling.

And you lunge.

*

Once, you find a family photo. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for in the first place, but you stumble upon a framed photograph in Asgore’s home. You’d expect something like this to be tucked away, but it’s on full display.

You’d been right about Asgore having a wife; though she’s cast in the most shadow and you can’t make out much of her face, she, Asgore, and two kids are all looking at the camera with big smiles. One kid looks like a young Asgore, but the other… you can’t help but think that they look like a human.

You put that out of your mind. That’s impossible. They’re just—a super humanoid monster, that’s it. Or maybe it’s the lighting. Something. Because they’re not a human. That would be crazy. Who heard of humans living down here, anyway? Or any monsters—let alone the king and queen—having a human child? What are you thinking, Undyne?

You shake your head and instead focus on how happy everyone looks. Asgore is even wearing a hideous pink sweater that reads “MR. DAD GUY.” It’s clearly handmade. You wonder if the kids made it—you suspect that they had help from their mother if they did, though, because the lettering at least looks halfway decent. Your eyes keep drifting to the expression of pure joy on Asgore’s face.

One of his paws is laid on each of his kids’ shoulders, and his ex-wife has an arm around his shoulder and is leaning their heads together. They’re almost nuzzling noses. Gross, but cute. You guess. In front of them, the kids have their arms around each other and are beaming, though the human-like one looks more hesitant. They’re wearing matching lockets, you notice.

You get such a sense of warmth off of the photo that you feel cold once you set it down. You shiver.

Footsteps echo in the distance, and you’re quick to rearrange things so it doesn’t look like you’ve been snooping before high-tailing it out of there. You try to put the image out of your mind, but it lingers for a while.

You’ve never seen Asgore look that _alive_. You have a feeling you never will.

*

“NGAAAAAHHH!! Why can’t I fucking _beat you_?!” you demand, spittle flying from your mouth with each word. “You told me you’d teach me how to beat you, so why _can’t I_?!”

You’re lying prone again, bandaged fists in the air and feet kicking uselessly against the ground. You’d thrown your spear aside—later, you’ll find out that it’d landed in (yes, _in_ ) a nearby wall, from which it’ll be plenty of fun to retrieve it (not). Anger has warmed your face, and you kind of want to scream again. You try to count to ten before deciding _screw that_ and taking a deep breath instead. You’re pretty sure this will be embarrassing later.

Asgore, standing above you, laughs—amused, but not patronizing. “Patience, Undyne,” he says, and your blood starts boiling again at the notion. “I never said the process would be instantaneous. I know this is difficult for you, but if you simply stay determined and keep doing your best—”

You grit your teeth and muster the best glare you can in your current position. He stops talking with a sigh, letting you get it all out before he extends his paw.

“Are you ready to go again?”

You take another deep breath. Run over his advice in your mind. Gather up all the still-developing strength you have.

And, through all the determination in a body unsuited for it, you drag yourself to your feet without the help of his paw. It’s unbloodied, unlike your own knuckles, so you glare as you stand. You’ve been starting to get injured—almost always through your own mistakes—but Asgore still hasn’t gotten so much as a cut from your training sessions. You respect him more than you can put into words, but, well—

Between that and his current attitude, you kind of hate Asgore at this moment. (You’re sure he’d laugh and be fine with it if you told him so. But that would _definitely_ be embarrassing in retrospect, even more so than your moment of—all right, let’s call it what it was, your tantrum. So you’re not going to.)

This time, though you haven’t yet spotted where you’d thrown your spear, you forgo it and raise your bare fists. You bounce on your feet, getting your blood pumping again. Asgore smiles and braces himself.

No matter how many times you go down, you remind yourself, you can always get back up.

*

“I hear you’ve been hanging out with my royal scientist,” Asgore rumbles one day as you’re leaving training.

You almost jump out of your skin. You manage not to yelp and stutter like Alphys (which you’d never thought to be an endearing trait before but which is growing on you), instead swallowing and saying, “Sir, I swear, it’s not what you think—”

Asgore blinks, tilting his head. “What do you mean?” he asks. “I really think it’s quite lovely, the two of you becoming friends. You’re around the same age and both rather passionate, so it’s only natural. Alphys… ah, well, she could use some more friends.” He rubs the side of his neck.

“Friends! Right!” You see the out and take it with both hands, breathing a silent sigh of relief.

You’re not opposed to Asgore knowing about your sexuality, per se—you’re pretty sure he already knows (you’re hardly subtle) and doesn’t care either way (he doesn’t seem the type to, and he’s alluded to being in relationships with monsters of several genders before). You don’t even care about him knowing about your growing feelings for Alphys, at least in the vague future. But the prospect of receiving a shovel talk from Asgore—right now in particular, but now that you think about it, ever—is _terrifying_.

“Yeah, she’s cool,” you add, shifting on your feet. “She’s really smart and technically a doctor I think, so I don’t understand some of what she says, but she’s super into all this nerdy stuff.” _It’s cute,_ you don’t say. “She’s been showing me this thing called anime! It’s, like, human history. And there’s swords. And guns.”

“I see,” says Asgore, obviously not seeing. “Well, I assume you’re off to see her now.”

You look, somewhat guilty, to the side. You _had_ been planning on heading home first to pack a bag, then take the boat to Hotland, because you’ve been invited to a sleepover. The other day, you’d told Alphys in passing that you’d never had one (but hadn’t mentioned you’d never had enough friends for it). She’d confessed that she hadn’t either, and one thing led to another. And now you’re going to a sleepover for the first time in your life. You’re pretty sure Alphys is going to show you more anime. You can’t wait.

You want to keep all of that private, at least for now, though, so you just say, “Yeah.”

Asgore nods. “I won’t hold you up, then. Give her my regards.”

You think about how that’ll probably fluster Alphys, make her turn bright red and pace around stammering for a while, given how often she calls Asgore_ Mr. Dreamy_. You wince. Oh well, she’s also talked about how cute Mew Mew is, so you’re not considering it a total lost cause yet.

“Yeah, okay,” you say. “Uh—see you later, Asgore.”

He smiles and waves you off. You’ll probably dismiss this encounter as a fever dream on your way back to Waterfall.

*

One day, apropos of nothing, Asgore calls you to the castle. You don’t have a training session scheduled today—you’d been hoping to train on your own with a dummy you’d hired and maybe go over to Alphys’ lab this evening, but you’ve no real plans, so, wary as you are, you attend to the summons.

“Asgore?” you call, voice echoing in the empty home.

Then you spot the sign nearby—_I’m in the garden!_ it reads in Asgore’s handwriting—and sigh, heading down to the throne room. There, Asgore is waiting in the center of the room. Arms behind his back, he smiles at you. A perfectly nice smile. His sharp teeth glint in the low lighting of the room, which has never put you off more.

Warning bells go off in your head. They only multiply when he says in a calm but too cheerful voice, “Good morning, Undyne. I see you got my message.”

“Good morning,” you respond, suspicion obvious in your voice—somehow, you manage to keep it from completely turning into a question. “No offense, but why am I here? Did I get the date for our next training session wrong? Are you pranking me like that human show?” A more horrifying possibility comes to mind. “Are you _hazing_ me??”

Asgore’s eyes widen. “No, no, nothing of the sort! I simply had something for you.”

“Wh—?” Your question dies on your tongue when he holds out his hands and is cut off with a screeching noise that you soon realize is coming from a deep place within your throat.

Because Asgore is holding out a spear. A better one than your old one, you can already tell—it’s brand new, as you can see from how sharp it is and how it sparkles, and a golden bow is stuck haphazardly on the head. The wicked point seems to glow. Your fingers itch at the prospect of being able to hold it.

“No way,” you whisper. “No fucking way! Oh my God! Is—is that for me?!” you add just to double-check, bouncing on your heels.

Asgore nods, holding it out. “I did promise to give you a new spear,” he says, sounding amused by your reaction.

“You sure did.” To be honest, you’d thought he’d forgotten—it’d been a while since he’d made that offhanded comment. You’d been planning to make one yourself with Alphys’ help, but you’re sure nothing you could come up with would turn out this well. You tilt your head and step in a semi-circle to get a better look at it from all sides. “DUDE, this is so damn cool!! Can I hold it?”

“It’s yours. By all means, do as you wish with—”

You tune out Asgore’s words as you snatch the spear from his paws and hold it tight against your chest. You weigh it in your grasp, twisting it around and getting used to the way it feels. It’s a bit long, but you’ve still got some growing in you, you’re sure. Otherwise, it’s sleek and deceptively light. You take the bow off the head and adjust your grip, dropping into an offensive position—

And you swing through the air. The swipe is clean and swift, a quick and simple move but impressive nonetheless. And it doesn’t break apart after a single hit—in fact, a tap on the metal produces a hollow sound, making you assume it’ll last some time.

Screw everything you’d said before about being able to work with what you had. You’re never letting go of this spear. You’re going to carry it around everywhere and put it under your pillow when you sleep. You know that everything in your house will be destroyed within the next week if you don’t get all of your energy out now—which isn’t a big concern, you don’t care much about any of your other belongings, but it hasn’t been that long since the last time you inadvertently destroyed your house, so you’d like to avoid that for now.

So you strike and strike again, cutting through the air while Asgore watches with a pleased smile. He starts, though, when you almost hit a flower. “Careful, now—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, shifting the spear to rest at your side, tip facing the ceiling. It’s tilted toward you, so there’s still a little danger, but that’s okay. You prefer most things with at least a little danger. You blink, realizing you’re forgetting something—“Thank you, Asgore! I love it so much.”

“You’re very welcome,” says Asgore. “Only the best for a future member of my Royal Guard.”

It’s the first time he’s said something like that—an outright confirmation that you’ll be on the Royal Guard someday, that he believes in you that much.

So of course you return the favor by charging with a cry of “SURPRISE ATTACK! NGAAAHHH!!”

(You’re knocked down within an hour. But it’s the longest you’ve lasted in a while, and the flowers provide the best safety net around.)

*

Asgore is with you when you lose your eye. More accurately, he’s there after.

You’re sitting together, you still covered in blood and Asgore splattered with it too—though you don’t think some of it is either of yours. You’re shivering not with cold but fear, something you’ve never known in this quantity, and you’ve been clutching the left side of your face with a vice grip that grows tighter by the moment.

Pain shoots through your body. Even aside from the severe wound, your arms and legs ache from the entire battle. The food Asgore offered had helped some, but not much, and you don’t want to ask him to retrieve any more right now.

“It hurts,” you gasp out. “It hurts _so fucking much_, Asgore.”

He squeezes your shoulder. “I know.”

“I—I—” You choke. “I’m so sorry—I let you down, I let everyone down—”

Given all you know about Asgore, you should expect it, but maybe the blood loss has gotten to you, and so you’re unprepared for him to wrap his arms around you. You freeze as he pulls you into the tightest, warmest hug you’ve ever received. Your breath catches in your throat, and your remaining working eye fills with tears. They’re not spurred on by the pain—no, you’ve been as strong as you can about that, at first refusing Asgore’s attempts at treatment—but rather the genuine show of affection, which you still aren’t used to.

“Don’t apologize,” says Asgore. “You haven’t disappointed me, Undyne, not even close—you secured us another human soul. You’ve done very well, I assure you.” You close your eye. An image of the container in which that soul is now contained flashes against your eyelid, and you open your eye again with another shudder. “Aren’t you glad? We’ll be free very soon.”

Despite how objectively good his words are, they’re blank and almost pained, even with a slight lilt on the praise. You can tell he means it, but there’s something… off about him in general.

You shake in his grasp. Slowly and silently, you bring your own arm up to clutch at his, to tighten the embrace—it’s so alien to you that you find yourself second-guessing. You’ll blame it on the blood loss, too. After all, even though you’re sitting, the room spins every time you look around.

You keep your gaze on Asgore’s fur instead. Into his shoulder, you ask, “So I guess you don’t want to train me anymore, huh?”

He pulls away, expression nothing short of perplexed, and you feel ice cold all of a sudden, this time shivering because of that. His claws curl around your shoulders. “Of course I still do. Now more than ever—you’ve accomplished more than most of my Royal Guard ever has,” he says, and you try not to preen, but a grin flickers on and off before you can help it. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You gesture toward your eye, still covered by your hand. “I’ll be less useful like this,” you say, even though you know as you say it that Asgore won’t make it a thing as long as you don’t. Which you also don’t want to. You wilt, shoulders stiffening. “Won’t I?”

“No,” says Asgore at once, dropping his curled paws to his knees. You jump at the sharpness of his voice. He leans back, looking down. “I’ve known plenty of fighters with all sorts of missing body parts, and they’ve been just as—if not more so—competent as everyone else. So long as you wish to continue your training, I see no reason why this should be any sort of block.” He tilts his head at you. “_Do_ you still—”

Before he even finishes speaking, you’re nodding, frantically bobbing your head. “Is that even a fucking question? Of course I want to keep training! I—I—” You hiccup. Praying he doesn’t bring it up, you wipe your eye and clear your throat. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

“Good.” Asgore’s posture relaxes, and he lets loose a quiet sigh. “Good, good. We’ll figure it out together, all right? Don’t think of yourself as a burden on me or anything to that effect, please,” he adds, probably noticing your uncomfortable expression. “You are my personal charge. It is my responsibility to look out for your safety and wellbeing. All right?” He gives you a pointed look.

You nod. You’re still hurting, still probably bleeding, but with his reassurances, you’re starting to calm down. Though you’re still going to be as independent as you can manage if you have anything to say about it.

The two of you sit in silence for a moment. Then you say, “Um, can I get a towel? This is starting to get uncomfortable.”

“Oh!” Asgore gets to his feet. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll make you some tea while I’m at it, how about that?”

You know for a fact he only has golden flower tea here, and it’s far from your favorite—to you, it tastes something like what you imagine hot piss to taste like, but you put up with it if Asgore’s having it. It’s not what you really want right now. But you can see Asgore’s paws shaking; his wide, glassy eyes; how pale his fur is, emphasized by the blood on it. So you nod again and are rewarded with a peaceful smile.

You wait for his footsteps to trail off, then hunch down. Your lower lip quivers. You keep one hand over your eye and curl your other into a fist until your sharp nails dig into your palm, creating pale crescent grooves when you unravel your fist, and you do that again and again. The dull pain is a distraction from the warm sting in your eye.

You’ll let yourself cry later, but not now. You don’t have time for grief, for regret, for anything more than the anger and so-wrong-but-so-right determination still pulsing through your veins with every beat of your heart, the physical pain coursing through your body. Heal first; then you’ll have time for quiet reflection, for moments of weakness. Everything you can’t let yourself feel yet.

Telling yourself it’s only to prolong that feeling, you run over the battle in your mind. You hadn’t expected the human to be so… weak. After all you’ve heard, you’d expected them to put up more of a fight. Have a determination in their eyes as fierce as your own.

But now your spear and hands are covered in blood, and sure, they’d taken a chip out of you, but your eye is the only real injury you’d taken; it’d seemed to be an accident, even, with how shocked they were after. But you’re sure that was just a show of manipulation, of prime tactics. No human would feel guilty about hurting a monster. The thought of a merciful human is laughable. They’re the real monsters, when one thinks about it.

But now another one of their souls is sealed away. Another step on the road to freedom.

You think you understand Asgore’s apathy now.

He returns not long after, finding you meditating with your eye closed (or at least that’s what you say, but to be honest you’d been trying to fall asleep), and sets the tray off tea to the side as he sits beside you again. The scent of it, light and floral as opposed to that of rust and sweat, is comforting, you guess. You muster up a small grin for Asgore.

“Stay still, now,” he says, and he peels your hand away from your eye. He doesn’t recoil at the sight of your bloodied eye socket, only cleaning the dried blood with caution and care and then patting your cheeks with a smile. “You still look a bit peaky. Why don’t we have some tea, hm? Maybe you’ll feel better.”

Later, he’ll provide you with a stylish, practical eyepatch that perfectly covers the socket where your eye used to be. It’ll be your second favorite gift from him, right beneath your trusty spear.

You wonder if this is what a healthy father-daughter relationship is like. If so, the concept is really growing on you.

*

In both combat and day-to-day life, your eye puts you at something of a disadvantage. It’s a big adjustment, for sure—you’ve been used to using two eyes all your life, and now you’ve got to learn how to get by using only one.

But you’re Undyne. You’re the Heroine. The future Captain of the Royal Guard. Asgore’s personal mentee. You’re more determined than any other monster, which nobody knows whether to consider a pro or con—you’re going to use it to your advantage, though. You’re going to learn to adapt.

You’ve got one whole side open and more limited depth perception, which makes throwing your spear and even holding everyday objects more difficult. At first, you have trouble making eye contact again. Your neck hurts all the time from having to turn it so often. You walk into walls a lot—and sometimes other people. Walking into Asgore is always uncomfortable mentally if not physically; his body provides enough padding to keep you from getting hurt, but it’s so awkward that you almost take psychic damage from the experience.

(You also start daydreaming about bumping into Alphys like in one of her anime. If it’s good enough for humans across history, it should work for you too, dammit!! But alas, Alphys is too sweet and always steps out of your way or walks on your good side if she sees you coming, and that subtle but genuine care only makes you like her more.)

You’re already right-handed, at least, so you don’t have to train yourself to be ambidextrous or anything. You’re sure you’d nail it, anyway, but your left side isn’t much use to you anymore, so you don’t bother.

You train and you train and you train. Your regimen—which had been pretty intense to begin with—gets harder by the day. You train on your own most hours of the day, learning your limits but pushing them every time you can. You rope Asgore into sparring more often, and you try to get established members of the Royal Guard to fight you too.

…Which doesn’t work as often as you’d like, because most don’t want to so much as give you the time of the day. So instead you end up fighting old Gerson more often than not. He thinks you’re charming or something and you still think he’s a badass, if an old geezer, so whatever. It works.

To hell with the Royal Guard, anyway! Bunch of washed-up snobs. You’ll show them. You’ll become even more powerful than all of them combined. You’re not a weakling anymore, and you’re not broken or useless. They’ll see.

Spite ends up being a major factor in your intensified training, though you’re certainly motivated enough as is. But if you’re getting worn out at the tail end of a workout, all you need to think about is how much the members of the Royal Guard will suck up to you once you’re their captain and you’ve got energy for days.

One day, Asgore finds you training alone, swinging at a dummy with all of your might. He must see that you’re getting frustrated, because he asks if you’d like to try something else to cool off and test your eyesight.

You drop your spear. “Fine,” you say through your teeth, wiping the sweat off your forehead. Your vision is blurred and filled with little black dots, so you think you’ve been at it too long, anyway. “What’ve you got for me?”

Whatever you expect, it’s not being made to pour tea like this is a regular cool-down. Asgore brews it and sets out the cups, so you don’t have to handle that part, but he hands the pot to you once he’s finished.

You miss the mugs on your first couple of tries, spilling tea on the table. Asgore gives you that encouraging smile of his. You take a deep breath—needed not only to calm yourself down but to get your breath back after exercising—and try again. And again. And again. And—again. The tea starts cooling off, and your attempts get clumsier as panic takes over.

When you’re considering giving up, you figure out that if you hold the mug while you pour, you can get a better sense for the distance and locations. Once you work that out, it’s not that daunting or stressful.

And, once you’ve filled both mugs and wiped the spilled tea off, Asgore beams. “I’m proud of you,” he says. “It’s all right to take a break sometimes, Undyne. And it’s even all right to accept defeat—but, this time around, I’m glad you didn’t.”

You scowl into your lukewarm, terrible-tasting tea, but you take that to heart.

*

“I wish this didn’t have to end in suffering,” says Asgore.

He’d last spoken so long ago that you don’t even remember what he’d said—some platitude about battle and war, you’re sure. But the sound of his voice now makes you look up and stop sketching in the dirt with your spear. He’s still facing away from you as he tends to his flowers, the light streaming into the garden illuminating the brilliant golden patches in a tone that reminds you of Alphys’ scales.

You stare at his back. His shoulders are tight, but it’s impossible to get a read off of the rest of his body language. “What do you mean?”

Asgore continues watering his flowers. “All of this… it’s rather pointless, isn’t it? An endless, vicious cycle?” He shakes his head. “Monsters are suffering. The humans who come down here are suffering. I have to imagine humans as a whole are suffering up there too.”

“C’mon, Asgore, who cares about them?” You laugh, but it’s more nervous than amused. “They’re the ones who trapped us down here and left us to die. They sealed us away.”

“Those who fall down here, though—they’re children, more often than not. They’ve nothing to do with it.”

“Is any human really innocent?” you say, bitter. Asgore tenses even further, but you go on. “They know what they’re getting into—and for every human that pretends to spare us, there are hundreds more who’d gladly kill us without even acting like they have mercy. We’re so close, Asgore—you said it yourself, we’re almost free. This is no time for a moral crisis.”

“That may be so,” says Asgore grimly, “but still, I wish there were another way. I don’t think anyone _has_ to get hurt—I never have, but… I’ve never been able to figure out another way.” He chuckles. “When it comes down to it, I’m just a coward, I suppose.”

“_What?!”_ You surge to your feet, anger swelling. Your spear clatters uselessly to the ground. “Everything I’ve gone through—everything _you’ve_ made me go through—and you’re just going to say shit like that? Asgore, you’re a hero! Also, kind of a dumbass,” you admit, “and especially for saying that! You’re not a coward, dammit! If you are, then—then what am I?!”

Because, well, you’re no better than he is. You’ve questioned whether humans are all truly bad more times than you can recall, though you try to put it out of your mind. Despite your headstrong demeanor, you’ve run in the face of danger. When you’d lost your eye, you’d broken down in tears but not for the loss—for the first life you’d ever taken, something you’d once dreamed about the glory of. And if Asgore is a coward, then for following him so passionately, you must be one too. The blind leading the blind, as it were.

Asgore heaves a sigh and continues as if your outburst never happened. “I don’t think of it as a bad thing, either. In fact, I think it’d be rather nice if the world were more cowardly—I reckon it would be kinder if folks were more scared of doing the wrong thing. If the world decided it couldn’t live up to all this pressure.”

He turns to water the flowers behind him, facing you. You want to scream even more at the pathetic, miserable look on his face, but he’s talking again before you can, and you don’t want to get in the habit of interrupting your king.

“I wish it were possible for this all to resolve peacefully,” he continues. “For no one else to die, or even get hurt. My children thought that way, too, but—”

He stops. And he laughs, a melancholy crack in it, eyes glazing over. You turn away before you have to witness him cry—even with how close you’ve become, it feels a touch too personal. You register this as the first time he’s mentioned his kids around you, though.

“I’m sorry, Undyne.” You turn back. He’s not crying, but the look in his eyes is still glassy and shuttered, and his blinks come fast enough that you can tell he’s still fighting tears. You bite your lip. “I’m sorry that you have to put up with a bumbling, sentimental old fool like myself. All this talk about peace and mercy… there’s no place in it for a world like this. Not for us, anyway.”

You think about the smiling man you saw in the family photograph you found so long ago. You look at the dark circles and red rims surrounding Asgore’s damp eyes, the thinness of his smile, the defeated slump of his shoulders. Part of you wants to cry, too.

Asgore kneels, snipping a handful of flowers, and gathers them in his paws. He crosses the garden to hand them to you but doesn’t look you in the eye. “Pass these along to Alphys, if you’d like,” he says. Then he looks around. A shadow must have passed over the sun, because light is no longer streaming into the throne room, pitch darkness folded over the two of you. “Golly, it’s getting late, isn’t it? I think I’m going to go have a lie-down. Call if you need me.”

You won’t, but you nod. The makeshift bouquet trembles at your hand as you watch him go—you’re not sure if it’s with further anger, sadness, or anxiety.

Maybe, you think as you make your way to Hotland with the flowers behind your back, it’s all of them at once. Or maybe it’s them mixed with the most terrifying feeling of all: Hope, slowly budding in your chest.

You don’t let yourself think about it much longer.

*

On an otherwise unremarkable day, years after you begin training, something happens.

Maybe you twist your spear the right way in a maneuver you’ll never be able to reproduce. Maybe your palm hits the perfect center of Asgore’s solar plexus. Maybe your feeble attempt at a kick works. Maybe you’re really focused today, which you may later owe to spending the previous night watching anime with Alphys, which always pumps you up. Maybe Asgore is distracted or forfeiting to make you feel better. Maybe it’s just dumb luck finally paying off.

But, whatever tap it takes to knock the dominoes down, one second you and Asgore are sparring, a pretty even match—and then, the next, Asgore is flat on the ground beneath you, bowled over by your hit.

And though you’ll feel bad in a moment, being able to look down on King Asgore himself, his bulky figure cast in your leaner shadow, his eyes wide and breath knocked out of him—

For a moment, you feel like you’re on top of the world, a king in your own right.

Then guilt takes over and you toss your spear aside, offering him a hand with an even wider eye than his. “Oh, fuck—Asgore, are you okay?”

He grins, looking delighted to have had his ass kicked. “I’m wonderful, _Captain_ Undyne.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! if you enjoyed and have time to spare, comments & kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


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